


Satan's Fingers or The Killers or The Hospital Bombers

by wilySubversionist



Series: Dethstuck [3]
Category: Homestuck, Metalocalypse
Genre: OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:46:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilySubversionist/pseuds/wilySubversionist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of 150-word micro-fictions, each centering on original Dethstuck characters, exploring what it's like being on the bottom of Mordhaus' foodchain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. > Shit: Get Real

#784 bleats and bleeds, writhing like a high-pressure firehose. He passes out, shits himself. You can taste it.

Faster than anything, the savage carpenter blurs: swoosh-crackle-crunch, hammer meets hand. You dodge a bullet-blast finger. When he slows, Haize is giant, heaving; he’s a fucking beast right now.

Cyrus watches, unmasked eyes sparking and legs snake-coiled; when he’s like this, you wonder whether most reform schools have wires in white rooms where you sizzle.

Haize sees him, turns, stepping on the one who had jokes about pounding a stuck-up blonde nail— he’ll lose the leg. Hammer shifts and Cyrus deflates, voltage dropping.

“How about you two do me a favor.” Whatever to escape this hot stink, shake those eyes off you.

He explains, chummy now, but you’re listening to gunk drip from hammer to floor, a wet oratorio about power.

Behind you, hustling down the hall, he shouts: “Thanks guys!”


	2. Varla vs. Mass and Acceleration

Watch the trees, ease up for turns. Flatbed fourwheelers go 13 mph at best. When the howls swell, punch the pedal so fucking hard it cracks.

Knee jammed in the wheel, twisting back to open the bodybags. Gray mottled bodies crest alongside, famished foaming snapping jaws. Find an arm, hurl it behind you; the slow ones settle on it while the hostile alpha fuckers keep chasing the hot meal.

Just your luck some asshole packed a whole one, too heavy to heave. Crank the wheel, brake, spin out. Face down the wolves and fucking push.

See his blue face: that fucking guy, the one who always coughed dyke bitch as you passed. Kick his corpse square in the chest, tumbling to the mud; today he’s puppychow. Everybody grabs a bite.

Now step on it, get the fuck out— glad today your meat is mobile, pulsing with bile and breath.


	3. In the colonades

It’s always quiet; it’s a fucking library. You know your way around, but you follow Jeff like a lost four-year-old in a mall: wandered away in Bed Bath and Beyond, suddenly you’re trapped in Borders, the stink like roasted coffee-bean BO and geriatrics.

He’s looking for something specific, and he’s your best friend since middle school, so you breathe slow through your nose and let it go; try to forget the promise you made to punch him out if he dragged you here again.

His thumb hooks a slight book, barely anything.

“Cyrus,” he says, but you’re looking at the only other occupant, a woman, pretty-icy-young, forehead creased, dreaming in the pages of some stupid thing.

“Cyrus, ever think that maybe we’re walk-ons in someone else’s story?”

He’s holding up that little book, titled _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_ ; he wants an answer.

“Jeff, stop being so goddamn _gay_. Y’know I’m allergic to books.”


	4. Bleak Heat

Flick of the light: surprising to see Haize sitting, bare head in hand at the benchtable. Uncomfortable silence turns to over-familiar chitchat:

“Hey Cherry, what’s eating you?”

“Nothing.” He passes a lying hand over and over his face; he wants it to not exist.

“If you got shit to speak,” you start, but no, he's locked tight.

“I’m fine.” You accept it, let him fold inward. Instead pour two tall steins, imported beer, let him pick.

The bruise he’s sporting is extra-sharp and double blue, a Swiss-made clock to the eye. That’s why you offer him your flask too, ask: “Will it be alright?” You never meant his face.

He is dark like a thunderstorm and twice as roiling: “We’ll see.” He repeats it twice.

Your arms ache for wanting to hold him, soothe and whisper how it will all get better. But he is all sharpened angles now, too brittle to touch.


End file.
